


Form of Someone Else

by saruma_aki



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, literally screw that ending, we fixing this bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 12:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19537489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saruma_aki/pseuds/saruma_aki
Summary: “I thought,” she starts, “I thought it had absolute control.”He looks down at the body, feels his knees give, and he thinks he’s just going to lay down for a second next to Billy, just for a second. He thinks they're both done right now, maybe more so than anyone thinks.  “Yeah, well,” he coughs, feeling suddenly so weak, and he thinks he’s feeling the tears now, turning to look over at dull blue eyes, missing their usual hypnotic magic, “you don’t know Billy.” He reaches out, places a hand on his chest and feels the soft thumping. “He’s kind of a fighter.”





	Form of Someone Else

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, but LGBTQ+ characters, LGBTQ+ coded characers, abuse victims, and abuse survivors being killed is a pattern that needs to end. It's lazy writing, a cop out, and I'm livid that the Duffers decided to keep with this harmful pattern that is constantly perpetuated in film and media instead of taking the golden opportunity they had and doing nothing with it. Billy's death was pointless and unnecessary.
> 
> And Alexei and Hopper didn't need to die either.
> 
> Alexei only died because they broke consistency with Murray and made the most cautious guy who is all too aware of all of the risks, say fuck it and take a wanted man into the thick of a fair where he knows there might be a strong hostile Russian agent presence.
> 
> And Hopper died because the Duffers think that a bullet proof vest is a thing. It's a bullet resistant vest, not a bullet proof vest. The name is misleading. Those vests can't stop a bullet shot from point blank distance now, and they sure as hell could not then. No amount of advanced tech can make any of the fabrics we've used stop several bullets shot at point blank distance. So, Hopper shouldn't have died because the evil Russian dude should have already been dead.
> 
> I reiterate, lazy fucking writing and no research--complete cop outs. I'm annoyed.
> 
> So, we're fixing this shit because I love all three of these characters and they died pointlessly.
> 
> Also, we're ignoring that post-credits scene right now because this shit needs to be over and they all need to be safe and sound.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: (I know, I know, this note is already so long, but AnoraktheAllknowing made some good points in a comment they left—then deleted—that I feel I should address.) I’m not saying the Duffers are bad writers. Do I agree with any of their decisions most of the time? No. But they are widely successful writers and clearly are talented. However, do I have the right to criticize their work and the choices they made? Yeah, I absolutely do. What do you think film critics do? They get paid to tell you all whether they like something or not and why. I study film. Dissecting film and media, monitoring character consistency, plot devices, and the general writing and execution of the show is kind of my job. It’s the whole point of my degree. You don’t have to agree with my opinion, that’s really fine, but you don’t have to come and yell at me because you think I’m wrong. I don’t criticize the writers for the choices they didn’t make that I would have preferred. I just fix that in fanfic. But I sure as hell criticize them for the choices they did make—like killing off a queer coded abuse victim and continuing to perpetuate a harmful trend throughout film and media as a form of redemption instead of putting in the work for an actually viable form of redemption. It’s a hurtful pattern for the LGBTQ+ community and for those who suffer from mental illnesses such as depression, anxiety, PTSD, or those who are in an abusive situation or have been. I am sure as hell going to criticize them for that. Do I personally like the Duffers? No. I don’t know them, and, so far, I haven’t been the biggest fan of their work. Most of the things I like have been accidents on their part or been influenced by the actors playing the characters (like the scene with Neil in season two and Billy’s entire backstory, Steve’s redemption in the end of season one and continuing into season two). Agree with me, don’t, I don’t really care. But if you’re someone coming here with the express purpose of hating on me and my opinion because I am critical of the show, then you’re not any better than you think I am. We all have our opinions, let’s just accept them. I think they’re continuing a terrible pattern that is intensely harmful that they had the chance to change, and you think that a bulletproof vest is actually bullet proof. That’s fine. (I’m kidding, okay? Your opinions are valid, just as mine are. But a bulletproof vest isn’t bulletproof and that really is just lazy writing—it’s actually inexcusable because a two second Google search would have fixed that misconception, and you can’t even pretend that it’s not just laziness.)
> 
> I would like to make clear that Anorak did leave an apology. They’re just a stressed out fan like us. They deleted their comment, so I couldn’t reach out to them personally, which sucks because I don’t moderate comments for a reason. I love to hear the thoughts people have even if they’re rude. Consider your apology and your opinion heard, Anorak, and I get where you’re coming from. I’ve been in the same spot as you—rarely, just because when you’ve studied film, you’re always critical, but occasionally. But, hey, I’ve always said that if you love something, you should love it flaws and all. If you can’t, well, it means you didn’t love it that much in the first place.

Her heart is beating double time in her chest, and she feels horrendously out of sync and also like everything is starting to fall into place—like she somehow feels normal amidst the absolute chaos and pain of the last few days. It’s terrible, disorienting feeling, and yet she relishes in it all the same. It’s a terrifying concoction of feelings, and she tries not to dwell on it as she sees that pastel, flower clad male barreling towards her, shouting, “Punch it, punch it, punch it!”

“Fuck, how’s Alexei doing?”

She knows her face looks grim, can’t help it. It’s not looking good. Alexei is taking up space in the little yellow convertible, and the chances of him dying are so high, it’s not even funny. Not that a single part of any of this is funny—she knows that. It’s not like Joyce needs anyone to tell her that the stakes are high, that people are dying again because of this fucking gate, because of the stupidity of scientists who don’t know when to just fucking stop.

“Okay, keep driving, alright, keep driving,” Hopper bites out, shifts in his seat to get a look at Alexei, grabs his shoulder and slaps at his cheek, startles as unfocused, dazed eyes shift vaguely in his direction. “This is going to hurt,” he says, enunciates every word like it’ll somehow diminish the language barrier one iota. It doesn’t, obviously, and he’s not entirely sure that it would matter right now if he spoke Russian.

“Is the Schwarzenegger guy dead?”

He almost snorts at the nickname, a call back to their time with the mayor. It’s sweet and weird and a lot messed up, but he’s feeling just the right level of crazy to laugh right now despite it all. “Not even he can get up from six shots to the chest from the distance I was at,” Jim responds, keeping his eyes focused on Alexei.

He tightens his grip on his shoulder, braces a knee on the seat, hooking his other arm under the man’s knees and turns him, shifts him so that he’s on his back, legs elevated, folded and propped on the door, feet dangling over just a little bit. “Be careful on the left side—keep some extra room if there’s another car,” he calls over, pressing down hard with the balled up shirt that Alexei has been weakly holding to his abdomen. He doesn’t know what to do, if he’s honest. He’s not sure any of them know what to do.

There are garbled words fluttering past the Russian man’s lips, weak and breathy, and he flails a hand back, tries to not think of the blood on it as he grabs at Murray’s shoulder and pulls him over the console. “He’s saying something. What’s he saying?”

“I—I don’t know—Alexei, Alexei, _talk to me_ ,” Murray pleads, reaches a hand out awkwardly to grasp at the sweat damp fabric of his dress shirt.

“ _Cauterize, cauterize, cauterize,”_ he’s repeating over and over again, and his breath his weak, skin clammy and cold.

“Cauterize the wound,” he relays, eyes lighting up a bit. “Jim, do you have your lighter on you?” he calls, already rifling through the glove compartment without waiting for an answer. He looks back to see Jim patting himself down, digging in his pocket and brandishing his lighter with a disbelieving grin on his face. “Okay, okay—fuck.”

“I got this,” he assures, tries to, but Murray has a desperate little look on his face, like plain words aren’t going to be enough to assuage him. Joyce is still tearing down the road, foot pressed firmly to the accelerator, and she glances through the rearview briefly, concern drowning her, but she can’t see anything other than Jim’s broad back, crouched over Alexei, struggling to maintain balance on his knees with no roof.

The lighter clicks on, and he keeps it down low, preserving the flame. The metal of the barrel heats quickly, and he nods at the shirt on the wound, hissing, “Move it, move it,” even though he doesn’t think Alexei understands the words, but he seems to understand the nods of his head and the direction of his gaze because his hand slides off, shirt entangled in stiffening fingers. He sets the gun by his foot, tears the front of the shirt open for direct access to the hole the bullet went through, and thinks about how much this is going to hurt, how he wishes he had the proper tools to get the bullet out, but they’re short on time and they’re trying to preserve his life right now, not get him functional. The gun is picked up again, rests heavy in his hand as he sits the flame under it—stares at Alexei’s rapidly blurring vision while he feels the heat emanating from the gun and counts down the seconds.

Gritting his teeth, he grasps it tight, and presses the barrel into the wound, wishing now he had given Alexei something to bite onto as he shouts loud into the night.

Alexei is set down along with the bodies of the other felled Russians, a hope of him just blending in despite the shallow breaths he’s still taking. He looks almost like a corpse, two seconds away from deaths door. They’re fairly certain he’ll blend in—mostly certain.

Their plan is flimsy at best, Steve knows—and he’s Steve. He’s the only person that shouldn’t know. But the adults—they’re stupidly self-sacrificing and he thinks he relates to it, but doesn’t really want to right now—especially not with Dustin’s hard glare trained on them. It reminds him of being stuck in the elevator—before they knew they were stuck—and Dustin staring him down, jaw set, strongly declaring, “If you die, I die, too.”

He will never understand how anyone thought that girlfriends were better than Dustin. The kid, despite being absolutely stupid in the worst of ways and brilliant in the best and annoying in all of the above, was undoubtedly one of the greatest people Steve had ever met. He’s not even sure he would turn the kid down for Nancy, had they still been together. And he wants to be comforting, he does, but the plan is flimsy. It’s complicated. It’s rough. The chances of success are so slim, it’s not even worth putting his hope on, but he’s putting all of it there anyways—because they have to win.

This was all supposed to be over ages ago.

But, fuck, they can see the flickering lights of the mall from up on the hill, and he can’t stay still. He can’t stay on that hill and yell into a walkie-talkie when they’re not fucking answering. He can’t. And Robin’s next to him, shoving at the hood of the Todd-father, unhooking it from its self-made ditch and scrambling into the seats of the slowly pedaling backwards yellow dream.

The engine revs, and he steps on it, wrenches the wheel around, pretends his heart’s not in his throat as the front bumper scuffs at the grass on uneven ground as they barrel down the side of the hill, pretends his palms aren’t sweating as he white knuckles the wheel and keeps the accelerator pressing into the floor. Robin’s clinging to the door, to the seat, walkie-talkie grasped tight in the hand whose heel is pressing into the center console.

There’s nothing truly satisfying about ramming the convertible into the side of a familiar blue Camaro whose roar still echoes in his ears. He tries not to look at the body, tries to think about how, if Billy’s truly a part of the Mind-flayer, he should be fine—tries not to think too hard about the possibility of him not being okay, of him being dead, of Steve having killed him.

He and Robin scramble into the back of Nancy’s mom’s car, and he’s still pretending he’s not terrified, but Robin’s given up pretending a while ago, and he knows she’s scared shitless. It makes Dustin’s singing through the walkie-talkie a welcome distraction, and he thinks he feels disbelieving tears pricking at his eyes, mouth falling open in an easy smile that he didn’t think he’d be able to make outside of the drugged up hours since this whole shit show started.

“Planck’s number is,” they here, and he’s suddenly back into the moment, and Suzie can’t be heard anymore, and he wants to sob. He seriously wants to sob, but he can’t because the Mind-flayer isn’t following them anymore, and they’re being wrenched around as the car swerves and turns, tires squealing, and then takes off after it. And, fuck, they need this to work.

The fireworks are a brilliant idea, if he’s being honest, and the Mind-flayer squeals and cries out, and through the corner of his eye, amidst the bright shocks of light and the smoke, he can see Billy, writhing on the ground, injuries appearing and healing on his skin, and that’s how he knows that it’s working more than they can see. But—they’re out. They’re out of fireworks, and Billy isn’t writhing anymore, and Eleven is still on the floor with him, and he’s pinning her down, and they can’t do anything.

They can’t hear what passes between them, if anything, but he sees Mike and Max off to the side, helplessly watching, and then Billy’s standing and staring, and the Mind-flayer’s tongue tentacle thing—he’s going to have nightmares for the rest of forever—is coming out like a snake, swaying side to side as it edges closer until it shoots forward.

And Billy’s holding it, grabbing it with two hands and screaming, face red with exertion, muscles bulging, and there’s black smeared across his face, like blood but not his, and his blue eyes are bright and shine in the strobe lights, but they’re dark, too, the white blacked out, blending in his long, dark lashes. When the first tentacle makes contact, strikes into his flesh, digs in deep, Steve feels it. He feels it like a physical blow, and his heart drops. He thinks Max might have screamed, but he’s not sure as the second one embeds itself into his other side, but Billy is still screaming, still staring down the Mind-flayer, and it’s—

It’s screaming back.

It’s screaming back like its hurting, like it’s in pain. He looks over at Eleven, but she’s not doing anything, is watching with tear filled eyes, scrambling backwards with an injured leg. But the Mind-flayer, it’s still screaming, still tearing into Billy, and the black veins on his arms are still there, and he suddenly thinks he gets it, but not entirely.

But then Max is running forward, a kitchen knife, a chef’s knife, tight in her hand, and he doesn’t know when she scrambled to get it, but it’s in her hand and Mike’s hands are outstretched, like he tried to stop her from running forward, and she’s shouting now—that he knows for sure. And Billy’s chin dips, teeth baring, yell tearing through him as he’s raised up and up and up, and his feet aren’t on the ground anymore, and Max is throwing the knife, a pitcher’s throw, with all of her might, blade careening through the air and striking at what he thinks might be the face.

His eyes—if he has any—are suddenly on Max for a split second before there’s a tentacle sticking out of Billy’s chest, and the scream abruptly dies, and his head tips back—and then the Mind-flayer is teetering and then falling, legs crumpling, and Billy’s dropping, and Max is there, and Steve doesn’t think he can sob yet, but it’s a near thing. Robin’s gripping at his shoulder, hand slipping down his arm and grabbing at his hand, pulling him to the stairs, the escalators—he’s not sure. It feels a little bit like a blur, and he thinks that the concussion is starting to win out over the adrenaline, maybe.

“Billy, come on, get up—get up, Billy,” Max is whispering, he hears, frantic and panicked, as he stumbles in her direction, sees Mike run to Eleven and scoop her up against him. He sees Lucas run past him, to Max, sees him grab at her shoulders, eyes fixed on Billy even as he pulls her up and away from blank eyes and black covered skin.

They should have done more, he thinks. He thinks of all that they did for Will and wonders. A part of him wants to blame himself, but he can’t—he knows he can’t. He wasn’t here. He couldn’t have done anything. But—what did the others do?

He looks at Max’s sobbing form. He looks at Eleven wrapped around Mike. He looks Nancy and Jonathan, at Will huddled close to him. He looks at Robin who’s staring down at Billy’s body with something like horror and pity and complete sadness. “I thought,” she starts, “I thought it had absolute control.”

He looks down at the body, feels his knees give, and he thinks he’s just going to lay down for a second next to Billy, potentially poisonous or infectious blood be damned. “Yeah, well,” he coughs, feeling suddenly so weak, and he thinks he’s feeling the tears now, turning to look over at dull blue eyes, missing their usual hypnotic magic, “you don’t know Billy.” He reaches out, places a hand on his chest and feels a heartbeat that’s no longer there. “He’s kind of a fighter.” Wait—

“Steve?”

He’s scrambling up onto his knees, muscles aching and head pounding, forcing a mouth open with sweat slick fingers, looking, checking, before tilting the head back a bit, chin up—defiant. His fingers lock as he places them on his chest, covered in black ooze and—where’s the blood? He locks his elbows, looks at blank eyes and stares pressing, once, twice, thrice, again and again and again because there was something—he knows he felt something. And maybe he’s not the smartest, maybe he can’t crack a Russian code, but he listened to the music—he found out the location, he saved Dustin and Erica, he saved Nancy and Jonathan and Lucas and Will from Billy’s car.

He wasn’t smart, but he wasn’t stupid. And he knows, he knows, that he felt something, something like—

He bends down, breathes once, twice, waits and then again, once twice, and starts again. “Come on, come on,” he’s muttering, thinks he is, anyways.

“Steve—Steve, he’s dead, stop,” Robin is whispering, urging, but he can’t, he won’t. It’s not possible, it’s not happening. There are no wounds. Where’s the blood? Where’s the red that should be covering Billy’s body and the floor? Where’s the anything? There’s nothing. It’s just black, and they collapsed and the same time, and he can’t be wrong.

So, he keeps going, presses again and again and again, blinks rapidly through the desperate tears, presses down harder and keeps going, ignoring Max’s sobs behind him, frantic with hope and desperation at losing it, and he thinks Lucas and Robin might both hate him right now for it, but he can’t stop. What did they do? Why didn’t they burn it out of him? Why was Billy like this until the end? Why, why, why—

Did they bail on him like they bailed on Dustin?

He looks up as someone falls to their knees in front of him, and it’s Will, ignoring Jonathan’s calls and tilting Billy’s head up, telling him to stop as he leans down, breathes deep, once, twice, waits, and then again, before sitting back, giving his cue, and Steve starts again, keeps going even as Robin starts hauling on his shoulders, even as Jonathan joins. He lets Will be his shield, lets him scramble up and shove them away, fight away from Nancy and shove Jonathan and Robin back.

Did they bail on him like they bailed on Will?

He saw them when they had gotten here. It looked like Dustin wasn’t the only one Mike and Lucas had been ignoring in favor of girls.

He presses on, presses and presses, keeps pumping into the chest, feels his own fragile hope wavering, but he can’t stop—it’s like he’s on autopilot. Breathe, press, breathe, press—and there are lights in the room, not the strobe lights, though, and footsteps, and men in army green and jumpsuits, armed with helmets atop their heads are marching into the room, and Steve yells for one of them, any of them. “Hey—over here! He needs a medic! Medic—”

“Steve, he’s dead,” Lucas hisses, and Max lets out a sharp, choking wail, face blotchy and red, and his throat feels raw as he yells harder.

“ _Medic_ —”

Murray is with Alexei, talking to the American soldiers, telling them what happened, what they did, watching the doctors monitor his vitals and then load him up into an ambulance. He’s in the ambulance with him, says he’ll serve as a translator. Jim’s not really sure. All he knows is that Eleven is standing there, one bum leg but whole and safe, and then she’s in his arms, and he couldn’t wish for anything else. He really couldn’t.

She’s warm and alive in his arms, and he thinks he’s never been more grateful for a miracle before as he is now. She’s shaking in his arms, and he wants to tell her that it’s all okay, but he knows it’s not. He knows it’s really not, but he doesn’t know how to make it better. He doesn’t.

“Steve, can you just hold up for a second,” Jonathan is calling, and he opens his eyes, sees him stall by where Joyce has Will wrapped up in her arms before continuing on to grab Harrington’s shoulder. Nancy is close behind the two of them, Lucas following along. The Harrington boy doesn’t answer, and Hopper doesn’t think he’s really looking too good right now, but he’s determinedly trudging to where the medics are loading the Hargrove boy into an ambulance, Doctor Owens riding shotgun.

“Let go,” he growls, and he loosens his hold on Jane, lets her step back, ushers her to where Mike is, somehow politely, standing to the side, waiting for them to be finished. He steps forward quickly once Jim pulls away, hugging her tight in his arms, looking on the verge of tears himself. He steps over to them; watches Harrington tear the hand off of his shoulder, teeth exposed in a snarl.

“Steve, you need to rest. You need a doctor,” Nancy presses, and the girl he works with is jogging over, looking concerned, ready to intervene.

“I’m kind of trying to go see one,” he shoots back, waving his hand over at the ambulance, and his gaze follows his hand and he’s already stepping in that direction, ready to bail. Jim can see Doctor Owens in the shotgun, watching the events, waiting.

“Harrington,” he calls, feels he should get involved. He watches the paramedics climb into the back of the ambulance. “Ride with Owens, would you? I’ll be right behind.”

The other’s freeze, and the Harrington boy takes it for the opening it is and darts towards the ambulance, clambering into the back, and he looks over at the girl in the Scoops uniform. “Ice cream girl,” he calls over, “come with me.”

“Steve, he was pronounced dead,” she whispers, but it’s the wrong thing to say—everything’s been the wrong thing to say, and she’s fairly certain Steve hasn’t taken his eyes off of Hargrove’s body since they got in, and he looks haunted. He looks like a part of him has died, which is weird because she’s fairly certain they don’t like each other—if Dustin’s story of Billy beating Steve’s face in is anything to go off.

She feels bereft, too, but she doesn’t think it’s anything like how Steve looks like he feels. She remembers Billy—cocky, confident, alone Billy Hargrove, the loneliest popular guy, the man who dethroned King Steve, who showed up and took the title effortlessly, who was somehow intelligent and cool, an asshole. He was like Erica Sinclair, cocky and smart and nerdy and fierce. And a total prick.

“He’s not dead, he’s not dead—Robin, listen to me,” and he’s looking at her, for the first time in hours, he’s looking at her. “I felt his heart beating. It started again in the ambulance ride. He’s not dead. I just think—I think it’s slow. It’s slow and weak, but I’m telling you. Robin, he’s alive. You’ve got to believe me, please.”

He looks lost, somehow. He looks like something important was stolen from him. He looks like—

He looks like how she felt when she watched Tammy stare at King Steve Harrington like he hung the moon and the stars. He looks gutted. He looks like he just lost someone he cared about—cared a lot about.

“So, how do we speed it up?”

His eyes light up. “We need to shock him.”

“Steve, they already used the defibrillators.”

“But not a high enough voltage,” Steve presses, standing up and wheeling the machine over, looking at her with a pleading look. “I know how it sounds, but trust me. I think we need to shock his system.”

She can’t help but frown, can’t help but hesitate. “Steve, what if we induce something bad? Like, cardiac arrest or a stroke or a heart attack or just a whole system shut down or something—I don’t know, just bad.”

The excited look falls off his face, and he looks dead—like he’s dead on the inside. Steve Harrington who had somehow kept smiling through the whole shit show that had been the last few days, especially today, looked absolutely dead. “You said it yourself. He’s already been pronounced dead.”

She couldn’t—why did he have to be so likeable? Why did he have to be so sweet? Fuck, she was really doing this, wasn’t she? “What do you need me to do?”

“Man the machine, and I’ll do the rest.”

The shocks jerk his body, and it smells like burning, and she knows that someone is going to come in and see them, and there’s no way they’re doing this properly, but Steve isn’t stopping, is staring intently at shut eyes in a pale face, calling clear every time they finish charging, and she ups the voltage every time, wincing away as she watches the torso rise and drop with each shock. She wants to puke, a little bit, but she’s not stopping—can’t when Steve is looking at her expectantly, waiting for her up the voltage, to help him.

“Steve—”

“One more,” he cuts in.

“Steve,” she whispers, and there are tears in his eyes, too, she realizes through her own wet eyes.

“One more,” his repeats, and his voice cracks, and she nods, can’t stop the motion, and her fingers move, as if on their own, to up the voltage, go past the increments she had been going up by, delve into what she’s sure is dangerous, but it’s one more. One more shock and then she’s going to have to see Steve’s face when he realizes he’s staring at a corpse, and if it’s going to be one more, she’s going to make it count. She nods at him. “Clear,” he says, tilting his head back and blinking back tears before his bows forward, presses the pads to the skin and lets the shock go through.

There’s the definitive smell of something burning, and Steve lifts the pads to reveal red and inflamed skin. But, more than that—

“I swear to fuck, Hargrove, I’m going to kill you the next time you pull that shit,” Steve chokes out, and he’s bending down, but the body hasn’t changed. Her heart stutters and breaks as Steve leans down, wraps an arm under his shoulders and pulls him up, cradles him close, and Billy’s head is lolling back, eyes still shut, and she wants to sob—she thinks she is.

He’s dead, and Steve—Steve’s acting like he’s alive. Why he can’t let go? Why can’t he just give up—just give up, please.

“Steve,” she starts.

“Steve,” echoes from somewhere else, and she jolts, shocked, looks around in a panic before looking back at the corpse, and—

And watches pale lids flutter, dark lashes slowly lifting to frame bright azure orbs that look at Steve like Tammy Thompson looked at Steve—like he hung the moon and the stars. She watches stiff fingers twitch and lift, curl in the bottom of Steve’s stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform.

“Is it—?”

“It’s dead. You did it. You fought him off, Billy. You did good,” Steve whispers, and she feels like she’s intruding on something important, something hidden, but Billy’s eyes flutter shut, and Steve drags him up more, flails blindly with one hand to find the button to sit up the bed, and she shuffles over, presses it for him, smiles back when he gives her the most relieved grin.

“It’s ‘well’,” Billy coughs, croaks, really, with a small snort as Steve makes an affronted noise.

“Way to ruin the moment, Hargrove.”

“Didn’t know if the other one was going to be my last,” Billy responds, and he seems like he’s fading fast, and Robin hurries to the door, calls for a nurse, a doctor, someone.

They were friends? It was weird, and she can feel the tears staining her cheeks, the relieved curve of her smile as she waves her hands in the air for a doctor, points into the room as she spots one at the end of the hall, the doctor that had been at the scene. “He’s alive, he’s alive!”

The doctor runs over, looking suddenly alarmed. When she turns to re-enter the room, she pauses, looking at the way Steve is half on the bed, pushing back the blonde curls on Billy’s forehead and staring into his eyes. It seems like such an intimate scene, and she can’t hear what they’re saying out in the hall, and her heart stutters again in her chest.

She recognizes the look in Billy’s eyes, and she winces, feels her insides twist and curl.

The loneliest popular boy Hawkins High had ever seen, indeed.

“I feel like I need to do some redecorating,” she hears behind her. “What do you think?”

It had been a long and hard month, if she was being honest. It was long and tense, and she felt like there was a ball pressing in her throat every time she looked into the room and saw it empty. The nights were silent. Neil was the same as always, actually seemed to be in a vaguely better mood, and Susan looked equally as happy—like things were better, somehow.

But they weren’t. Billy was gone and they didn’t even care. Neil didn’t ask what happened, he didn’t file a report. There’s no funeral, no nothing. He’s just gone, the only reminder his room, and Max feels like she’s drowning in her memories. She should have done more. She should have set the sauna on fire. She should have burned it out of him. She should have done more.

She could have saved him.

But he’s dead now, and she can’t even apologize, can’t go and cry and tell him how sorry she is because they don’t even have the body. There’s no grave, no stone, no body, nothing—just the faint smell of cigarette ash and the lingering of his cologne on the bed sheets, and she feels the tears welling every time she sits in there, feels how empty the room is—still small but feeling so open and barren, like it tripled in size without Billy’s big presence to take up space.

But his eyes are blue and his steps are solid and it’s like the room shrinks, and Max feels her breath quiver out of her, feels her hands tingle and shake as he lowers himself down, doesn’t crouch but kneels before her like he’s putting himself at the whims of her judgment, to determine if he’s worthy or staying.

She can’t speak, feels the tears well in her eyes, feels her throat bob as she swallows, the burn in her nose as it flushes red, going up the tops of her cheeks. His eyes are looking a little wet, and his mouth opens and she swears—

“I believe you,” she blurts out, stares at him with wide eyes, feels the tears drop unbidden. “I never really said it, but I believed you. I _believe_ you. I believe you didn’t want to do any of it. I believe you. I’m so sorry, Billy, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I believe you. I believed you. I believed you. I believe you. God—”

His arms are strong and warm, and he’s whispering apologies into her red hair, and it’s like a shock to her system. He’s warm and solid and real and alive—and the sobs come out willing, and her arms come up and tighten around him, wrap around his neck and squeeze, and she slides off the edge of the bed, curls up into him and clings. She clings and clings, and she doesn’t think all of the forces in the world can tear her away.

“Billy, Billy—”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop, please—you didn’t do anything wrong.”

A disbelieving little laugh leaves him, and his hold on her tightens, and she presses closer, doesn’t think she’s ever imagined hugging this tight or this long or hugging him, period. But she doesn’t want to let go. She doesn’t want to let go ever again. “I believe you. I believed you.”

“I know, Max. I know.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m here. I’m sorry. You have to believe me.”

“I do,” she croaks, pulls back, looks at him, brilliant blue eyes wet with tears. “I believe you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, Alexei still got shot because even though Murray's inconsistency bothered me, I didn't want to re-write the whole plan, so I needed him out of commission, but I wanted him to live.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed. Feel free to comment and let me know what you thought!
> 
> You can find me on Instagram ( @saruma_aki ) or tumblr ( @saruma-aki )


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